Page 91 of Beautiful Killer

Crap.I’d momentarily forgotten about his ex-fiancée. “So the last time you were here . . . you found her . . .”

He glanced at me. “Yep.”

“This must be hard for you.” I hated that, for so many reasons. I also hated that I felt jealous of his awful ex. That she’d managed to make him feel something real for her, when I’d failed.

“Being home’s hard, but not because of her. We weren’t right for each other, never were.”

“Oh.” The rush of relief I felt was almost heady. I was trying to not get caught up in what he said before we came here, but it was hard. Because honestly, I wanted to believe him. I wanted it to be true.

“You got upset during dinner,” he said into the silence.

I turned to him. “No I . . . You’re family, your parents, they’re so nice. I never had that. I wasn’t upset, I was . . . happy that our baby will have them as grandparents.”

He stared at me for several beats, then said, “Let’s get you inside, it’s been a long day.” Then he climbed out and got our bags from the trunk.

I followed him inside and watched him take in the place. I was tidy, cute. The furniture, worn, but good quality. He carried on upstairs and pushed the door open to one of the bedrooms. It was empty. Zeke frowned and moved to the next. He opened the door and shook his head when he took in the furniture.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Mom got the place ready for us. She moved the bedroom,” he muttered.

I frowned, confused.

He dropped the bags on the floor, staring out the window, to the beach, which his cottage backed onto. “She thinks I haven’t been home because of Diane.”

Now I got it. She obviously thought being in the same bedroom he’d shared with his ex would stir up old memories. “What is the reason, that you’ve stayed away?”

He stiffened and turned back to me, then motioned to a door across the hall. “Bathrooms through there if you want to clean up.”

I’d shocked myself asking him that question, but if he wanted us to be together, shouldn’t I know those types of things? Shouldn’t we confide in each other? Isn’t that how real relationships worked? If he didn’t want to answer, there was no point pushing. He didn’t want me to know. “Thanks.” I grabbed my bag and headed to the bathroom.

I climbed in the shower, and tried not to think how great Zeke’s mom and dad were, how much I would have loved to be in a family like that when I was growing up, how thankful I was that my child would have such amazing grandparents. Then I started trying to work out how it would all work if Zeke and I didn’t make a go of things, and how I would be forever tied to him, which led me to thinking . . . what if Zeke eventually did find someone else, and because we had a child together, I’d have to see them together. Then I felt ill, because I would not want to see that. But I’d be forced to. And would this mystery woman like my child, would she resent us, and so on, until my heart hurt and I had a headache coming on.

I finished up, dried off, dressed, and headed downstairs to find Zeke. Maybe we should talk about some of these things. Our conversation yesterday had been cut off by his mother’s phone call and Zeke had been stressed since, so I hadn’t liked to bring it up.

I couldn’t find him inside, so I headed out the back. The cottage had a big deck overlooking the ocean, with sun-bleached wooden furniture, and steps that led to the yard. A short distance from that was sand. The beach right there. I stared out to the water, breathed in the salty ocean smells, and listened to the waves crashing. It was breathtaking. The moon was full, huge, lighting the water up, making it glisten. That’s when I saw someone bobbing out in the water. They were sitting on a surfboard and when they turned their head to the side, giving me their profile, I knew who it was instantly. Zeke.

I watched as his body drop forward on his board, arms moving, hands carving through the water with deep, sure strokes as a wave moved up behind him. Then he jumped to his feet and rode it in like he’d been doing it all his life. I guessed he probably had. I watched him for over an hour, surfing in the moonlight. Every time he caught a wave, my heart would beat faster. The way his body moved, the skill that would take—I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Finally, he walked out of the water, his board under his arm, and strode toward the cottage. I was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. It seemed so long since I’d touched him, since he’d touched me. I craved it, and even though I knew going there with him again was a phenomenally bad idea, I could admit to myself that I still wanted him, badly. He was wearing a wet suit and he’d unzipped it before he started walking. He’d pulled his arms free and left it dangling around his waist. His hair was hanging wet over his face, dripping, droplets landing on his bare chest, sliding down. The moon reflected against his skin in a way that highlighted every ridge of bulging muscle.

The man was physical perfection. Masculine beauty. Rugged and rough in an intensely sexy way.

He shoved his hair back and lifted his head. That’s when his eyes found me.

My breath got momentarily stuck in my throat.

He strode up the steps and onto the deck, then leaned his surf board against the house. His fingers shoved his hair back again and my mouth went dry at the way his biceps bulged.

His gaze did a sweep of my body. “Sorry, you were probably wondering where I was,” he said.

I was wearing a stretch cotton, sage-green nightie with spaghetti straps and a cute silk ruffle at the hem that hit about mid-thigh. It was nothing special, but going by the way he was looking at me, I got the impression that he liked it. My eyes slid over him as well, every inch of bared skin. I couldn’t stop myself. “I’ve been watching you out there for a while,” I said.

His gaze slid to my chest, then back up. “Haven’t surfed in a long time. I saw my board and had to go out.” His voice was a whole lot lower.

“You’re good at it.”

He shrugged and his eyes dropped to my chest again. My nipples, that were insanely sensitive at the moment, stiffened.